


Jungle Fever

by Abi (justabi)



Category: Entourage
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Begging, Blow Jobs, Canon Related, Cheating, Episode Related, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-09
Updated: 2008-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justabi/pseuds/Abi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Billy declares that there will be no sex on his set, everyone gets a little crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jungle Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you dancinbutterfly for cheerleading and being an awesome beta. Thank you roxymissrose and restless_jedi for audiencing something when you didn't even know who the characters were. Y'all rock. (I get to say that now that I live in Texas.)

After Billy declares that there will be no sex on his set, everyone gets a little crazy. Nobody's as batshit as Walsh, but but it's a close thing. Vince makes it about a week before he's a complete fucking headcase. He hasn't gone longer than three days in years and now is really not seeming like a good time to stop. E's with Billy, though. He doesn't want Vince fucking the locals or the crew and Vince is used to doing what E says so he doesn't even think about it.

What he does think about is E.

E's been acting all professional and shit, bossing people around and making shit happen and it makes Vince want to suck his dick till his jaw falls off. The fifth day of enforced celibacy, Vince jerks himself off in a supply closet listening to Eric finesse the camera crew. He feels like a pervert, but he can't help it. It's hot and he's hot and E's hot and Vince can't stop fondling himself every free second he gets. He hasn't spanked it this much since junior high, the week after he and E jerked off over his mom's Maidenform catalog in the basement behind the hot water heater.

The point being, he needs to get laid before he gets arrested for indecent exposure.

He's trying to choke one off as quiet as he can in the tiny bathroom of his tinier trailer. E is passed out on the couch two feet away through a fucking cardboard partition and while that is so not fucking helping the beating-off-like-a-monkey-in-the-jungle problem, it's gonna get him off in ten seconds flat. Or, at least it would have been ten more seconds if E hadn't woken up just then and said Vince's name all sleep rough and sexy as fuck, and Vince can't help it if he's a moaner.

Which is what leads to The Talk.

The Talk would have gone better, Vince reflects, if there hadn't been something in the water. Or the air, or whatever it was. Because no way could he get hard again that fast without some kind of chemical interference. He's come three times already today, and it's only noon, but E ripping him a new one gets him hard all over again and this time there's nowhere to slip off to, no way to take care of business, no way to hide that he's seconds away from taking himself in hand right there in the middle of E's rant.

“Jesus, fuck, Vince,” E snaps, hands on his hips, watching Vince spread his legs like one of the local whores. He's still got his pants on and his hands are safe on the bench behind him where E told him to plant them, but right now that's his only claim to decency.

“Please--” It's all Vince can say. He's shaking and he can't stop, can't talk. There's nothing he can say in his own defense. Maybe he's jungle crazy or the Viagra Fairy has been spiking his punch, but it doesn't matter. He's staring at the ceiling, with his head thrown back so he doesn't have to see what E's face looks like, all the while begging, whispering, “Please, please, please,” over and over again.

E says, “Christ, Vince,” and suddenly he's right there. All Eric's weight is holding Vince down by one hand shoved in the center of his chest. Vince tries to look up, to ask what's going on, something, but E just bites out, “Don't,” and shoves his other hand down the front of Vince's pants, jacks him hard and fast while Vince bites his lips and squeezes his eyes shut tight.

It doesn't take long for Vince to cream himself and E wipes his sticky hand off on Vince's shirt before he lets him up.

Vince doesn't even try to meet E's eyes. It's obvious E's hard, but that doesn't mean he liked it, and after he flinches when Vince reaches out to return the favor, Vince gets the message pretty loud and fucking clear.

They avoid each other the whole next day, but by dusk Vince is ready to crawl out of his skin. He hasn't touched himself all day, but the hot flush of shame and humiliation when he thinks of the look on E's face isn't enough to stop him _needing_ it.

He crawls into E's trailer that night after everyone's gone to bed and begs him to let him suck his dick. “Just once,” he promises. “Just let me suck you this one time and I'll be able to stop. _I'm sorry._”

Eric nods once, tight, and covers his eyes with his hands. It's too hot to wear anything but boxers to bed out here, no A/C, no reprieve from the heat anywhere. Vince is so fucking careful as he pulls the light blue Calvin Klein's down E's thighs, worried any sudden movements will make E bolt. E doesn't bolt, though, just lies there stiff as a board while Vince sucks him. Vince comes in his shorts before E comes in his mouth.

The third night Vince climbs into E's trailer, E's already naked. Already hard. Already clenching his fists by his side, face turned away from the door, away from Vince. He whimpers brokenly when Vince takes him in his mouth. His thighs shake the whole time Vince is sucking him, knocking against Vince's dick and Vince humps E's leg like a dog.

There's no one in E's trailer when Vince shows up the next night, well past three. Vince takes off his clothes and jerks off with his face in E's pillow and falls asleep in E's bed.

He stays in his own trailer the next night.

The next day he shoots a lot of people. Billy says he's really getting inside Pablo's mind. E's nowhere to be found, so Vince just shoots more people, enjoys the feeling of pulling the trigger and doesn't give a fuck if it puts them over budget.

When Vince finally drags his ass off the set, back to his own trailer, belly still padded, face still covered with the sticky latex remnants of his makeup, E's sitting on his bed. He's not naked, and he doesn't really even look happy to see him, but he pulls Vince down onto the bed with him, snarls, “I have a fucking girlfriend,” and kisses him with more teeth than tongue.

Vince goes back to needing to get off a dozen times a day, but it's so much better with E dragging him off to suck his dick or jerk him off or just fucking rub up against him until his pants are a mess. They don't talk about it, they don't ever talk about it, but they do everything else every chance they get.

Filming's just about to wrap up and Vince is getting a little desperate. He doesn't know what's going on, and while that wasn't a problem when six months on location seemed like forever, six weeks left has come and gone and now they're a lot closer to six days.

E's got a girlfriend at home, Sloan, who's fucking hot and classy and trusted him in Columbia for six months without her, but who will probably want him back after that.

Which is fine. It's fine. It is. It's just that it makes Vince wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night in the sweltering jungle clutching at the naked body next to him.

Even with the delay with the ending, it still does. End, that is. One day they're filming a hundred thousand dollars worth of explosions and the next they're on a plane out of Bogotá and back to civilization. E doesn't say anything the entire trip, which isn't anything new. They haven't talked in months. Sloan meets them at the gate along with Ari and Lloyd and half a dozen reporters. They couldn't afford to charter a flight on the way home, so the flashes aren't a surprise, and really, neither is Sloan, but that doesn't make it any less a punch to the gut.

The car whisks Vince off to some fancy hotel with honest to God air conditioning and hot running water and no Sloan. No E, either. Turtle's there, and Johnny drops by, but for two days all Vince does is sleep and wait. He's not even sure what he's waiting for. To get dumped? To hear the juicy details of E's happy reunion? To have the Earth crack open and swallow him whole so he doesn't have to face the humiliation of opening his very own hand calligraphed invitation to E and Sloan's housewarming party?

When E finally walks in three days after they get back, Turtle says, “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Fucking my girlfriend, asshole, where do you think? It's been six months.”

All Vince can think to say is, “Right.” Because, yeah. It has been six months. Six fucking months with only a cheap fucking substitute for the real thing.

Vince fucks the masseuse who comes in at four with the door almost all the way shut. He can still hear E and Turtle playing Madden through the crack. Her name is Kelly, maybe? Doesn't matter. What matters is that she's limber and hot and actually wants him. He feels a vicious stab of satisfaction when he hears the door slam. He hopes it hit Eric on the ass on his way out.

Being the gentleman he is, Vince walks her to the door when they're done and kisses her goodbye.

He really isn't expecting to turn around and see E sitting there slumped over on the couch with his head in his hands. Turtle is gone. The Xbox is broken and there's little pieces of electronic parts scattered all over the room.

When E looks up at him, Vince doesn't just feel naked because his dick's hanging out. He feels raw and vulnerable in a way he doesn't want to analyze. Ever. E is _mad at him_. Vince can barely breathe the air is so thick with E's anger. He can't move, so he just stands there in middle of the room in a generic, white hotel robe hanging open at the sides, shaking.

E says, “Do you even know her name?”

He did; it was pinned to her shirt, but now he can't remember. Instead, he says, “Why are you doing this to me?”

Eric reaches into his back pocket and slaps two tickets stamped Alitalia on the coffee table in front of him and shoves them toward Vince. “Go ahead. Look.”

Two first class tickets to Rome, one marked Eric Murphy, the other Sloan McQuewick, leaving in four hours. Vince says, “The fuck, E? What exactly is it you want me to say to that? Have a good flight?”

“I don't fucking know!” E shouts. “I don't fucking know, alright? Don't go, maybe. I just --”

“Don't go.” He's not sure it actually came out of his mouth the first time, it was so soft, so he says it again. “Don't go.”

E looks wrecked, looks the way he looked right before the first time he kissed Vince in Columbia and Vince can't not kiss him. Takes E's head in his hands and kisses him, climbs into E's lap and presses him back into the couch and says everything he wanted to say for months in the jungle: Mine. Stay. Love me. Love you. Need you. Want you. _Need you._ Don't ever fucking leave me.

He shreds through Eric's clothes to get down to skin with one hand because he's afraid to take his hand away from E's face or break eye contact. It's over fast, both of them needy for it and easy. It's not about sex, anyway, there'll be plenty of time for making love and all the other stuff they've never done later. Right now, it's just about them, together, with nothing in between.

And because it's really E, finally, not just E's body, when they're done, they cuddle. Vince dozes off with his head on E's chest, E's fingers carding through his hair, legs all tangled up together. He wakes up alone on the couch. The Weather Channel is on the TV and there are six suitcases by the door. E is talking into his phone furiously and greasing the palms of like four bellhops with fifties and when he tells Vince to,"Put some fucking clothes on already before we miss our flight, asshole," all Vince can do is smile.

He's going to Italy.


End file.
